Slumber
by HellzLittleAngel
Summary: His dreams with Walter aren't innocent. Dreams with serial killers should be anything but innocent. His dreams are not dastardly horrifying either. Rather, it's always a plain, neutral affirmation. There is nothing particularly special about the situation and there's no reason the encounters with the killer should keep him up at night, but it does.


**Slumber**

Henry dreams. He dreams of the souls of those lost to the dreadful hands of a maniac; he dreams of the inhuman creatures that stalk him repeatedly in everyday life, tearing down the corners of his mind and waiting patiently for his mentality to collapse. Perhaps it's not as melodramatic as it sounds, but the visualizations won't fade from memory—even now. He dreams of Eileen. (How could he not when she has become his companion for the entire duration of that nightmarish world?) In his mind's eye, she's doused with the blood of every victim. She whispers something in an entirely different language that's beyond him. When he wakes up, he doesn't trouble himself to crack the code. He'll go insane before figuring out what it all means.

He also, regrettably, dreams of Walter Sullivan.

And who's to blame him when his own name is still on the lease of the apartment that he had vowed never to return to? He would have kept his distance from Ashfield and everything in between, but Eileen's startling devotion to keep her apartment room is astounding after all they've experienced together. He would have assumed she would be hellbent on leaving the town just as much as he would. Yet, accordingly, that didn't occur. And what kind of person would Henry be to leave her? So the deed was done, and after watching several tenants decide to find another apartment without the reek of death lurking in every corner (and secretly wishing he could be a part of the crowd), the door of free will closes in exchange for the apartment that's going to cost him one hell of a clear mind.

His dreams with Walter aren't innocent. Dreams with serial killers should be anything but innocent; his dreams are not dastardly horrifying either. Rather, it's always a plain, neutral affirmation. Walter is always kneeling over _something—_a body, he presumes sickly—and Henry himself is turning a blind eye to the act. There is nothing particularly special about the situation and there's no reason the encounters, in his mind, with the killer should keep him up at night, but it does. Even now, as he's readying himself to lie down, the thought of visiting the blond is enough to reconsider sleeping. He's seen enough of that blood-stained blue overcoat for a lifetime.

He doesn't have much of a choice. Henry shrugs the horrible sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as he turns out the lights and crawls onto the mattress. And for a while, he dreams of nothing.

His heartbeat is thumping wildly in his chest as familiar fear creeps up his spine. He isn't quite aware of his surroundings yet. His vision only reveals predatory green eyes watching him with utmost amusement embedded within. He humors the few seconds he has to the idea of fleeing, but his legs aren't cooperating. Not as though he would have made it far. Everything is clearing up in his eyes. The listless, bland colors of his apartment are almost welcoming, except the atmosphere is still terse. His attention is captured by the creature with striking green eyes and it's then that Henry finally takes note of the owner of the heavy presence.

Walter moves towards him at a rapid pace, so sudden it renders the brunette useless for a solid five seconds. In that time, the serial murderer invades his personal space, staring down at him with eyes that taunt and mock but fueled by nothing other than a sort of sadistic glee. Not even a speck of hatred is revealed in Walter's features, and Henry isn't certain if he should feel relieved or terrified. He settles on the latter. Stumbling back wide-eyed, the brunette barely catches himself against the outer railing of the kitchen counter, a nervous jolt of adrenaline seeping into his pores. Does the blond plan on finishing the Sacraments? It isn't ludicrous and he wouldn't put it past the taller man.

"Henry." His name uttered in such a soft and defiant nature is what does it for him. Henry's mouth dries and before he can even think about defending himself, Walter has crowded his space again, cornering him and effectively intimidating the brunette. For a few seconds, he entertains the idea of shoving the blond man away and making an escape to the front door, but it would be in vain. The battle with him some months ago was won through a thousand strokes of luck with all things considered. Repeating something like /that/ and escaping alive would be a next to nil chance.

In any case, Walter isn't angry. Henry would like to keep it that way.

"…Wh-What do you want?" The brunette squares his shoulders and attempts to grasp onto his own dignity, but his resolve is diminishing with every second of silence passing. Staring into Walter's dotted eyes is hard enough to maintain without trying for his own control of the situation. The next words that come out of the killer's mouth catches him completely off guard.

"Have you been taking care of Mother?"

Henry blinks and for a few seconds he draws up nothing. His eyebrows crease and the confusion is evident in his features. "I'm… I'm sorry?"

"Mother." Impatience lingers Walter's tone. "Have you been taking care of her?" It takes an embarrassingly long moment for Henry to realize what he's going on about, and an even longer moment to conjure up his own response to such a _weird_ question. A small part of him is thankful that he isn't being threatened within an inch of his life so far. Perhaps he can find a way out of his mess.

"I…" The brunette clears his throat. "…Yes?"

The blond stares for a moment longer, as if unconvinced and doubtful, but it clears up within seconds into something akin to relief. A disarming, pleasant smile takes over his features. "Thank you." He says. Henry opens his mouth but closes it. That's… a little more than unexpected. He imagined blood would be staining the carpets the moment the monster residing in Walter Sullivan came crashing into his life again. He definitely never imagined in his wildest fantasies words of_ gratitude_ rolling off the blond's tongue for taking care of a room that's a little more pricey than he'd like to admit. Walter continues to speak, as though he doesn't notice the stunned expression from the photographer. "I am glad you've decided to continue living with Mother. I trust Her with no one but you, after all."

Henry has absolutely no idea how to reply to that. He wouldn't even know where to begin to think up a response, but to his relief, Walter doesn't seem to expect an answer. The blond hesitates, a startlingly coy side of his brutish personality shining through, and inquires in a strange, childlike voice, "Does She talk of me?"

Henry can think of a million ways to answer it, ranging from being cruel and flat out saying no to mumbling a yes and telling him to get out. He battles with himself momentarily, focused on the consequences of everything he could say to the blond, but in the end he decides to play the role of the nice guy, _despite_ having been on the other side of a pointed gun less than a year ago. "Yeah, Walter." The name sounds bittersweet in his mouth and leaves a stale aftertaste, but he can't deny feeling as though he's accomplished something grand at the sight of the brute blond with sheer happiness in his eyes. "She… She says she misses you." He lies through his teeth. The brunette has never been a skilled liar, though now it seems he doesn't need to be. At this rate, the attentiveness the serial killer is exhibiting proves he's bound to believe anything Henry says. "…She loves you." After all, every child should know he is loved by his parent. Especially if the guy has devoted all twenty-something years of his life and afterlife trying to win the affection of a room.

This conversation has to be ending some time or another. Henry inches to the side, cautiously watching for any sign that the killer is catching on to his poor excuse of an escape. His blood freezes when Walter's calloused hands clasp on either of his shoulders—face unreadable—and the brunette knows right then and there that he's made some sort of mistake. There's no other reason as to why Walter would touch him other than to finish the job. Has Henry's words encouraged the killer to continue the ritual? His whole frame tenses as he visibly flinches back, waiting for the inevitable blow to the head. Perhaps a knife hidden within those long thick sleeves will sheath itself into his neck. Wouldn't that be a way to go.

There's a pregnant pause, and then—

"Thank you, Henry." Hefty arms envelope around his arms, trapping him in the embrace. In all accounts, it's the most friendly, warmest hug Henry has ever received, and he's certain it's partly from the blue overcoat that has to be emitting heat. The sensation of Walter's chin nesting against the shy back of his shoulder and their cheeks brushing against one another is hypersensitive to the brunette, and the hands that had caused grief of so many families firm on his back is unnerving. Shame and horror ride in his head as he does nothing to stop the embrace. If anything, he shakily outstretches his arms to awkwardly return the hug. For _Walter's_ benefit. Not his own. He tries to ignore common sense—_he's hugging a serial killer, a serial murderer that has killed children!_ - and focuses instead on the blond's heartbeat. Well, there lack of. It's quiet enough for his own heartbeat to thump obnoxiously loud, filling the silence for both of them, and it's times like that moment when he wishes he could shut off his fear. He isn't being attacked. In fact, this human act is pleasant, and perhaps that's why he can't control his breathing right. When _is _the last time he's been so close to another being?

Shifting, Henry loosens up, if only for a few selfish seconds. His eyes drift shut and he breathes in the blond's scent. The killer smells of nothing, which is rather odd to him, but the brunette decides it's better than the scent of a filthy forest and rotting flesh. "Walter…"

Henry blinks. The morning rays of sunshine peers into his room and washes away any hope of another round of sleep. He silently yawns, stretching his exhausted limbs before climbing out of bed. He drags dead-weight feet to the kitchen and settles on brewing coffee for the rest of his day. Once set, the photographer leans against the counter, elbows resting on the surface and his hand cradling his face, watching the glimmer of a new day awaken the dulling colors of his living room set. He can't help but have the strangest sensation that he has dreamed of something. Something sweet; something almost comforting. The brunette pauses for a moment, staring at particularly nothing, his eyebrows creased as his mind wanders back to the night beforehand. He recalls lying in bed, losing consciousness, and then… Nothing. Whatever it was, Henry muses, it's gone now.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Jesus fucking christ I hate using this website. EE-NEE-WAYS So this is a super late valentine's gift to my Henry (Kayla) because she's been going through some shit and hey, cheering people up is a pretty chill thing to do.  
Funfact: In the original rough draft of this, Walter and Henry actually kissed, but I decided the story might have been too forced it there was a kiss involved.  
Okay bye.


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